


gold state

by daremebyday



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 05:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14731259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daremebyday/pseuds/daremebyday
Summary: Brian licks his lips and says, “I want to fuck you,” like it’s an answer to the question from before. It isn’t. Trixie was asking for something that might fix this. Sex won’t fix this, but Brian wants it anyway—he wants it so bad he’s burning up with it, skin feverish, ears ringing.Trixie looks at him, a kind of slack blankness in his face. He’s hard in his sweats. That thing inside of Brian, that hollow, hungry thing, yawns open; but then Trixie says, “Yeah, okay,” and turns and walks without another word towards his bedroom, stripping his shirt off as he goes.





	gold state

**Author's Note:**

> this is possibly going to be one oneshot in a set of three, depending on whether i can muster up the time/energy/justification. title is referencing "california" by chris pureka.
> 
> some logistics and warnings: i use brian for katya here and he/him for both of them. this is set nebulously sometime in either the near-future or the near-past (you choose,) but is only loosely drawing from today, i guess. warning for implied themes of addiction, sobriety, and mental health. i feel like there should also be a warning just in case for bad decisions—related to and not related to sex. this is from katya's pov, and she reads much more strongly and clearly than trixie in it. trixie reads passive at times, which may in this context necessitate a warning in and of itself, but the whole fic is actually structured around her decisions. so! make of that what you will.
> 
> disclaimer: all of this is a work of absolute fiction, if it draws on the name or appearance of you or anyone you know please back-click now.

“You’ve got a beard,” is the first thing Trixie says to him when he opens the door.

“What? Yeah.” Brian touches his face. “For a while now.”

Trixie steps back, holds the door open further. “I meant Amy, actually.”

He’s kidding. He’s probably kidding. He doesn’t sound like it, but Trixie rarely does. It’s been months since they’ve spoken, but Brian remembers that much. The inflections, the little things—he’s held onto it, despite himself.

He looks from Trixie to the gap between his body and the doorway, and back again. “Can I, uh. Can I come in?”

“No, I just wanted to let the A/C run out. Yes, you idiot,” and _that_ , that’s not entirely the joking inflection. That’s fine. Brian has earned it, probably.

He ducks his head and follows Trixie docilely inside.

There’s suitcases leaned up against the wall one one side in the hallway and shoes kicked off haphazardly; the only light as Trixie closes the door behind him is from farther in, the kitchen maybe, and it splays across the floorboards like spilled wine. It doesn’t smell like food—it doesn’t smell like anything, a full-stop _absence_ that Brian remembers from when he used to be the one away from home for weeks at a time. He toes off his own shoes, lines them up neatly against the wall.

“How long are you back for?”

Trixie sweeps past him. “Just today and tomorrow. Some business shit to take care of.” They pass into the kitchen and he cracks a beer; he glances under his lashes up at Brian, a barely-there thing, as he weights it in his hand and then drinks. “I wasn’t expecting your text.”

“Yeah, well,” Brian says. He remembers the instagram story he’d seen, LAX recognizable in a way that made him _feel_ the grime of a long flight on his skin; he shifts from one foot to the other. “The moon was in one of those phases—and Mercury, you know, _Mercury_ —and, so, who am I to refuse?”

Trixie just looks at him. “Uh huh.”

Jesus motherfucking Christ.

“Tour’s going well?” he tries. “You—I mean, I’ve seen—you look like you’re having fun? I mean. You look good.”

That should be a lie, for the record. Trixie looks like shit. He’s wearing track sweats and an old t-shirt, and there’s shadows cut so deep under his eyes that they might never come out. It’s excruciatingly hot.

What is it they say about absence, again?

Trixie sighs, and slumps back against the island, like its cool marble finish is all that’s holding him up. To Brian’s expert eye, something has loosened. “It’s fine,” Trixie says. “Long. The first-timers on board are having a hard time of it.”

He could be speaking about anyone.

Brian raps his knuckles against his thigh. “How much longer?”

“Two more months, so far. We’re waiting to see what else might be on the table before we book any more dates.”

Brian nods, and waits, and listens to that _we_ and tries not to wonder who it might include. Trixie scratches at the corner of his eye, under his glasses; the bare three feet between them feel unbreachable. Familiar cupboards, familiar floors. Even the hum of the fridge is familiar. But whatever there is in the air between them isn’t.

Trixie sighs again, like he’s caving. “What about you?” he says.

“Good,” automatically. Brian bites the inside of his cheek and says, “I mean, good, most days, and some days not good. Doing a lot of yoga. Cooking—trying to, I guess, sometimes. Seeing friends.” He laughs awkwardly and jokes, “Turns out, I don’t like many of them sober.”

The corner of Trixie’s mouth _might_ twitch, for a second, before it smooths out again. “Therapy?” he asks.

 _That’s intrusive_ , Brian wants to say, but once again he figures Trixie has the right. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, the podcast is basically therapy, right?”

 _Do you listen_ , is what he means, _have you been listening, are you, that is, do you hear what I’m saying when I say it, do you know?_

Trixie opens his mouth, pauses, closes it. Takes a swig of his beer. Comes to a decision and says: “I’m not sure that’s how that works.”

“I’m not sure you’re in any position to know,” Brian says before he can think better of it.

Trixie looks at him. His fingers are very pale against the rust-dark of his beer, like he gets when he hasn’t been outside much. The bottle maybe shakes a little—but maybe that’s just Brian, because he sees things, sometimes, not like hallucinations, just like a _maybe_ , because he wants them so bad or sometimes just because.

“I mean,” he says, and he wishes he could stop fucking _clarifying_ what he _means_ , “I just mean you haven’t been around to know.”

“I don’t remember that being my choice,” Trixie says, sharp. He looks away, turning his face to the side; the burnished light of the early evening catches on his glasses and the skin at the bridge of his nose. He inhales once, then exhales slowly, and Brian tracks the rise and fall of his chest out of habit.

The fridge hums in the silence.

“What do you want, Katya?” Trixie says.

“I want it to not be like this between us,” Brian says immediately. Something twitches in Trixie’s cheek; his eyelashes quiver, maybe. Brian swallows and says, “I want to not be stepping on eggshells. Now, and also, like, all the fucking time, every breath a breath full of eggshells, like I’m always on the fucking _verge_. I want to go back and beat the shit out of myself as a teenager. I want things to be hard in a way that’s interesting, not just hard in a way that’s hard.”

He’s breathing heavily when he finishes, louder than the fridge or Los Angeles outside. There’s one window open on the far side of the living room past the island, and Trixie’s guitar case on the sofa, open but apparently otherwise untouched. It’s too quiet, he realizes. Normally when Trixie’s home there’s music on, his laptop open on the counter playing something soft and lilting. Trixie’s been back for over an hour—Brian knows that much for sure—and it’s too quiet.

Trixie looks back at him. “What do you want from _me_ , Katya?”

And that’s Trixie, that’s always been Trixie. Too direct for Brian’s own good. Too quick to puncture Brian’s favourite lie, which is that _Brian_ is too direct for Brian’s own good. Brian sucks on his teeth, considers, and then says instead—“You know, suddenly it was like you didn’t care at all if it hurt me, you just cared if it was _fair._ ”

Something cracks open in Trixie’s face. He looks about how Brian feels, deep in his chest, dry and splintery like bone breaking under pressure.

“Of course I cared,” Trixie says, voice thin.

That’s what it is, that makes Brian give in. He’d told himself he wouldn’t. When Trixie opened the door, face grim under all that polite blankness, he hadn’t even wanted to, and that—that was fine, that would’ve been fine. But hearing this, the way Trixie’s voice goes high and pained, like it does, like it always has, brings it all back. And Brian gives in.

He crosses the space, getting one hand on Trixie’s beer and one around the back of his neck, and he kisses him.

Trixie freezes. Brian doesn’t move back or apologize, just holds himself there, insistently, stubbornly in Trixie’s space, feeling the solid heat of him, breathing beer-taste from his lips. He rubs his thumb against the spot behind Trixie’s ear like he's arguing his case. 

Trixie makes a scraped-out noise, and then he opens his mouth under Brian’s, one hand fisting roughly in Brian’s shirt to pull him closer.

And that’s—not what Brian was expecting.

 _Wait_ , he wants to say, because he’s never been in the business of encouraging _Trixie’s_ bad ideas, _wait, but, what about_ —

Trixie fumbles to the side to put his beer down with a thud, and instead of pushing him away with his now-free hand like he should, Brian shoves it up under Trixie’s t-shirt, pressing it open-palmed against the hot skin of his stomach. He makes some awful sound; Trixie licks into his mouth.

He’s half-hard already but it doesn’t feel sexual, the skin under his hands or the mouth slick against his. Well, it does. Of course it does. If he didn’t still feel fucking _excavated_ it would be one of the hottest things that’s ever happened to him. But mostly he feels empty, and like just touching skin isn’t enough. He wants to bury his hand into Trixie’s stomach, open him up and make a nest there, warm and wet and closed off to the world, wants to be so close inside of him that he can’t feel the hollow inside himself anymore.

That’s gross. He knows it’s gross; he doesn’t care.

Trixie is panting into his mouth, back arched to get him even closer, to press their hips together, and it’s all too much, so much more and headier than anything he’s had in ages. He gets his hand up at the base of Trixie’s skull, the bristle of buzzed hair like road burn under his palm, and kisses him deeper, wetter. Trixie pulls him in for one more second, then shoves him away. He stares up at Brian, mouth slick, the skin around it scratched pink from Brian’s beard.

Brian licks his lips and says, “I want to fuck you,” like it’s an answer to the question from before. It isn’t. Trixie was asking for something that might fix this. Sex won’t fix this, but Brian wants it anyway. He wants it so bad he’s burning up with it, skin feverish, ears ringing.

Trixie looks at him, a kind of slack blankness in his face. He’s hard in his sweats. That thing inside of Brian, that hollow, hungry thing, yawns open; but then Trixie says, “Yeah, okay,” and turns and walks without another word towards his bedroom, stripping his shirt off as he goes.

Brian follows.

The bedroom is warmly lit, white linen curtains pulled, pink duvet clean and crisp against the form of the bed. Trixie throws it back carelessly and sits on the edge. Brian crosses the space like it’s on fire, first taking Trixie by the face to kiss him, then pushing him down flat and climbing on top of him. Trixie thrusts his hips up, right where Brian is hard in his jeans, and Brian groans. He pulls back to unzip his jeans and yank off his shirt, lift Trixie’s glasses off of his face, and Trixie, Trixie’s eyes are closed, Trixie’s brow is furrowed. Brian lowers himself back down. He kisses Trixie’s mouth, on the side, then right on his lips when his mouth closes, there and then gone. Trixie’s chin nudges up; he kisses back. Brian presses a hand to the bare skin of Trixie’s chest and feels his heart.

Trixie swallows under him. He hooks a finger through one of the belt loops in Brian’s jeans and tugs. “You’re so distractible,” he says.

Brian _is_ distractible, looking down at Trixie’s kiss-swollen lips, the hard line of his dick. The latter in particular; he urges Trixie further up onto the bed so he can yank his sweats down around his knees, dick springing up immediately. No underwear. Brian lowers himself down, braced on his elbows, and gets his mouth on it, just quick, to feel the heft against his tongue. Trixie makes a choked noise and then Brian’s letting him go, grabbing him by the hip and thigh, turning him over.

Trixie buries his face in his pillow. “God,” he says.

“Yeah,” Brian says, but it’s breathless, soundless, lost somewhere between his throat and the air beyond. He leans down to drop a kiss to the middle of Trixie’s spine. Another, and another, down. One at the very crest, the rise of his ass.

Trixie’s hips work against the bed. “Fuck,” Brian says, and this makes it out.

He’s so hard it hurts, and he shoves his jeans and underwear down onto his thighs so he can grab himself, stroke precome down onto the shaft. With his other hand he takes a palmful of Trixie’s ass and spreads it, feeling the heat of skin against skin. He wants to nose into the cleft, take a taste; he presses his thumb against the rim but Trixie hitches up with a noise, turns and glares over his shoulder. “I’m not prepped, asshole.”

“ _Tracy_ ,” Brian whines despite himself.

Trixie’s eyes widen and Brian would swear— _swear_ —he almost laughs. “I didn’t know this was going to happen, you lunatic!”

Brian _does_ laugh, feeling like his whole body is lit up with air. “I’m going to need your boy scout badges back, Trixie,” he says, and presses his dick into the line of Trixie’s ass, rubbing his slick against the skin there.

“Jesus Christ,” Trixie says, voice breaking, dropping his head back down to the pillows.

Brian thrusts forward again. He nudges his cockhead against the rim until Trixie begins to tremble under him. Precome slips white and slick, thick against the pink of his dick, the pink of Trixie’s ass.

Trixie scrabbles out with one hand toward the bedside table and manages to fumble lube out of the drawer. He shoves it back towards Brian; “Fucking _come on_ ,” he says, as much a bitch in this as in anything. It just gets Brian hotter. He smears the lube over his dick and shoves Trixie’s knees open with one of his own, then gets up right against him, grabbing him by the waist with the lube-wet hand. Trixie makes a noise that is distinctly half-grossed-out, half-turned-on.

“Come on,” he says again. He glances over his shoulder, brown eyes darkened to almost black, and that’s—too much, suddenly, right there and too much, _seeing him_ , and the hollow inside Brian carves open further, cavernous. He feels his mouth open. He feels words there, on the tip of his tongue.

He plants a hand between Trixie’s shoulders and presses him back down, lines up, thrusts shallow against his ass. Does it again. Trixie makes another rough noise, not quite biting it off quickly enough.

Brian’s wound so tight he could come already. He doesn’t; he holds on, fascinated by the glide of skin on skin, the heat and wet against his dick, different from being inside but somehow dirtier. He ducks his head and watches, his dick fucking into the cleft of Trixie’s ass, Trixie’s thighs twitching, and something snarled up inside him pulls tighter.

He lowers himself to one elbow, slides his hand up again to the base of Trixie’s skull, like he’s pressing Trixie’s face into the pillows. He’s not—there’s no force to it—but something about the motion burns in his gut. He plants a kiss at the center of Trixie’s spine. For a hot second, he remembers Trixie like he was when they met—all that hair, flopping into his eyes as he rushed into the van to the studio, gelling it up in a rush after he got his seatbelt on. The skin under his hand now is nearly smooth, just slightly bristled. The body under Brian’s is slim and hard from the road. He wishes for all that hair, suddenly, something he could sink his fingers into. There’s nothing spare on Trixie now, nothing Brian can grab and hold.

That’s not exactly true, and he huffs a laugh into Trixie’s shoulder, reaching down to hitch Trixie’s hips up, just a little. He gets his hand, still wet with lube, around Trixie’s dick, and Trixie twitches, thrusts into his fist. Brian follows the move with his own hips, rutting harder into Trixie’s ass, muffling a groan with his teeth in Trixie’s skin.

“I’ve got you,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t come out like the taunt he wants it to be. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

Trixie’s hand, clutching the bedspread by his own shoulder, twitches. He fumbles it along the sheets until his fingers are brushing against Brian’s elbow, his forearm, his fisted, bracing hand.

Brian’s hips jerk, frenetic; that sweet ache builds at the base of his spine. He tightens his grip around Trixie’s cock. Trixie makes a strangled noise; Brian fucks up against his ass, hard, like he’s tasting the skin there with each drag, pressing him down into the bed, burying his face in the sweaty skin of his back. He exhales like it’s punched out of him and breaks open and comes.

Trixie writhes against the sheets as wet slides down the crack of his ass—”Fuck, _God_ ,”—and Brian tightens his fist reflexively, knuckles crushed bruisingly into the mattress. Trixie swears again and comes as well.

He goes slack and still. Brian isn’t still; he can feel himself shaking, but can’t make himself roll away, even though he knows Trixie must feel it from beneath him. His jeans are still tight around the middle of his thighs and he’s starting to feel where they’re cutting into him, but still, he doesn’t move.

Finally, Trixie says, “It’s hot,” and so Brian rolls aside, leaving that feeling of fullness behind.

He lies in the quiet, skin sticking to the sheets, picturing his breaths misting in the air above him. The evening sun slants through the window; when he glances over, Trixie’s back is lit warm and gold, the pallor from earlier chased away.

After a moment, Trixie’s eyes flicker open. Brian looks back up at the ceiling.

“I think maybe I’ll always let you in,” Trixie says, his voice like a dream. “Because I think of you outside and I hate it.”

The words catch; the sheets rustle as he shifts in place and then stills. Brian isn’t breathing anymore.

“But you want both, Katya,” Trixie says. “Don’t you? You can’t help it. You want both, more than anything else.”

Brian feels fingers at his side, and looks over. Trixie’s watching his own fingers pinch at Brian’s jeans, pulled back up around his waist. Brian’s limp, wet dick has already been tucked back into his underwear. He doesn’t remember doing that, but he must have.

“Maybe you should go,” Trixie says, very quietly.

Brian—Brian wants to say _I could stay_. He wants to. But he doesn’t.

It’s a matter of seconds to pull his shirt back on. Another second to zip up. When he looks back at the bed, Trixie’s lying on his stomach, sweats kicked off and sheet pulled up, facing away. His shoulders are scuffed pink from Brian’s beard. There’s a wet spot visible on the sheet, and that more than anything else makes Brian’s cheeks burn and his stomach turn over, nauseated.

He pulls on his shoes in the dark hallway. Trixie’s suitcases sit in judgement against the wall; that burns too, and the cheap thrill of it, the _dine and dash_ romanticism, the way he almost loves it, nauseates him too.

He steps outside. For a second the light blinds him; then he finds his bearings and, head ducked low, walks away.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! find me on tumblr @ daremebyday


End file.
